


Hestia's Hearth

by odiko_ptino



Series: Featured Character: Hestia [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Gen, auntie hess is here to make it better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 21:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17030712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odiko_ptino/pseuds/odiko_ptino
Summary: Hestia's unspoken duty as Lady of the Hearth is to be a comforting hand on the shoulder of a lot of emotional gods and goddesses.





	1. Hera

All are welcome at Hestia’s hearth:  all, without exception, without judgment.  Hestia does not offer advice unless asked; nor does she offer overt censure.

This isn’t an official responsibility within her domain, but one that she considers a sacred duty nonetheless.  The hearth means ‘home,’ and home should be the one place where a person can feel safe to be who they are.

————–

Hera

————–

Typically, her complaints are about one of two things: Zeus, or his innumerable bastard children. Hestia and Demeter have grown too accustomed to these grievances to be shocked anymore, but they know that each infidelity hurts Hera afresh, and so they listen and sympathize.  

The Queen of Olympus doesn’t usually weep about it.  She rages, in flavors of either bitter or furious, and in later years it becomes resigned annoyance; but she only cries three times:

The first, is when Athena comes into existence.  While Zeus’ perfidy infuriates Hera, it’s at least understandable, even if maddening: men are in love with their dicks, after all, and find the siren call of some hussy nymph or titan or princess, to be too tempting.  She can at least understand him seeing the appeal of another woman satisfying base desires, and children sometimes resulting from these dalliances.

But when he births Athena himself, it’s a crippling blow to her.  That he produced another child without her, without even the excuse of a saucy nymph he couldn’t resist?  That he should think so little of her as a wife, that he chose to somehow birth a child himself?  That he chose to  _distort the laws of the universe_  in order to avoid making her the mother of his children?

She weeps for hours at a time, for days at a stretch.  It’s during this time, in fact, that Leto inconveniently reveals herself to be pregnant by Zeus as well, and Hera descends on the unfortunate Titaness with savage hatred, channeling all her misery into tormenting the woman.

Her sisters hold her while she weeps, and don’t know what can be said to soothe her.

The second time, is when Hephaestus comes into existence.

She believes her body is twisted and failing; she believes she personally doomed this child and cursed him to a deformed body.  She cannot imagine how the boy will fare, raised in Olympus with the two Golden Bastard twins, Artemis and Apollo who are fabulously perfect in every way; the twins who hate Hera passionately for how she treated their mother.  She can’t imagine that the coolly brilliant Athena will ever treat Hephaestus with kindness, in light of this clear evidence that Hephaestus is an inferior being.  Even Ares – her beloved boy, the only product of her union with Zeus, is fast warping into a bitter, angry man, hating these glowing usurpers who leech their father’s love from him.  Perhaps that is her fault, too.  Zeus must despise her so much that his contempt spills over onto Ares.  He wants nothing to do with them.  Imagine how he will react to her deformed attempt to create life on her own, without even his genetic stamp to vouch for the child Hephaestus.

She weeps a third time, when Hephaestus returns to Olympus and the bitterness that started his life has clearly seeped into his heart, in spite of Hera’s attempt to spare him from his family’s scorn.  He hates her, too.  It isn’t enough that her husband despises her; it isn’t enough that their home is filled with proof of how many times he’s turned from her; it isn’t enough that those children also look at her with contempt.  Her own child looks on her with the same loathing as everyone else, and had to be bribed into releasing her from the rigged throne.  

“What am I supposed to do,” she sobs.  “Everywhere I turn I’m cut.”

Demeter and Hestia hold her and weep with her.


	2. Zeus

He doesn’t visit Hestia very frequently – or at any rate, he visits but doesn’t often confide.   Not in Hestia, anyway – it’s well-known that Athena is his closest confidant, and his motives remain somewhat mysterious even to Hestia, keeper of all secrets on Olympus.

It takes Hestia a while to reconcile Zeus’ generosity with his selfishness.  Zeus permits his family nearly anything they ask for, and Hestia knows they’re all grateful for that.  He is kind and jolly… but he sometimes hurts his family more than she thinks he realizes.

In the early days, Zeus confided the most in Prometheus – the roguish Titan who challenged Zeus’ views so often.  Too often, as it turned out: Zeus’ first confidential visit to Hestia involved a lot of pacing as his voice rose in agitation.  Why should his close friend and one of his earliest allies keep undermining his rule like this?  Prometheus seems absolutely determined to make the young king look like a fool, and challenges his will constantly when the new world order is still too fragile and uncertain.  And all over the stupid humans, of all things?!  

Zeus is embarrassed, Zeus is hurt… Zeus is angry.

After the theft of the fire; after Prometheus has been banished to his torment; after everyone on Olympus has sobered considerably towards their king now that they’ve seen that he extends his wrath even to his closest friends… he sits at her hearth and holds his head in his hands, ignoring the refreshments Hestia offers, allowing no warmer touch than a hand on his shoulder.  

After that, the king of the gods struggles to find balance between being the leader of this collection of powerful, willful beings; and being the jovial, adventurous god he still wants to be.

For a while, his visits slowly increase as the strain begins to show.  Most of the time, his difficulties aren’t so different from the others’, save for the pressure he feels to stay above it all.  

He presents a stern face most often, particularly with his son Ares, with whom he already has an antagonistic relationship.  Ares frustrates him deeply – Ares, who willful like Prometheus but without the Titan’s charm or wisdom: too hotheaded, too difficult to govern.

And yet when the coup is attempted, it isn’t Ares who’s involved in any way.  Zeus is betrayed by his brother Poseidon; his wife Hera; his favored son Apollo; and his beloved daughter Athena.

Zeus’ wrath is not a secret, nor mysterious.  It is explosive and visible.  Poseidon and Apollo are cast down to earth to toil as mortals. Hera is chained over the abyss of Chaos.  Athena…

Zeus and Athena talk. They talk at length, and no one dares to even approach, let alone intervene.  The storm clouds rage around Olympus… and then, finally, they stop.

Whatever was discussed, Zeus is visibly less strained afterwards.  He deems that the punishment meted out to the others was sufficient, and recalls Poseidon and Apollo back to Olympus.  

Hera had already been freed by the time Zeus made up his mind – it was Hephaestus, actually, who had rescued her, his pity overcoming their estrangement from each other.  It’s hard to be  _happy_  about an attempted coup – either that things had gotten bad enough the other gods felt it necessary; or the fury and heartbreak she knows Zeus felt – but the results do please Hestia.  Hera, certainly, is happier afterwards than she’s been in decades.

And since he was unable to demonstrate to his wife that he forgave her by releasing her himself, Zeus made a gallant effort to restrain himself from straying from the nuptial bed…

…for a while.

That’s the main thing he complains about, afterwards: the affairs, and the fallout thereof.  He speaks mostly in tones of resigned exasperation that ironically match Hera’s own.

“The dalliances create a lot of fuss,” Hestia observes once, as neutrally as possible.

Zeus shrugs.  The next thing he says would doubtless infuriate Hera with his casual tone, but Hestia thinks there’s a tone of wistfulness she finds telling:

“They’re a lot of fun,” he says.  “We just have fun.  I miss that.”


	3. Aphrodite

Jealousy and infidelities feature frequently with Aphrodite, too: she has come to accept them as a hazard of her job.  In fact, in her own way, she celebrates them – love is not always joy, she’s said to Hestia; it’s selfishness and fear sometimes as well.  Aphrodite embraces the complexity and depth that comes from the heart.

Usually, anyway.

Regrettably, not everyone is on the same level of enlightenment as she is about it.  When Aphrodite first arrived in the world and the Olympians met her on the beach at Cythera, she had been equal parts charming and shocking with her candid views on embracing love’s full potential.  

Aphrodite still carries herself mostly with an air of joy, but she has confided a certain melancholy to Hestia.  She had come into existence with plans, where everyone was free to love whom they wanted.

Reality has changed the carefree goddess, and it started fairly immediately.  Zeus and Hera…… do not immediately present a compelling example of why Aphrodite should choose to marry.  Nor does Poseidon, whose story is already well-known to Aphrodite (indeed, she may be the only one aside from Hestia herself who knows about his arrangement with his wife).  Aphrodite’s earliest visits to Hestia’s hearth were mostly peppered with curious questions about why  _anyone_  should choose marriage – indeed, of the six women of the Council of Twelve on Olympus, only Hera has done so.  One, Demeter, has chosen a life of promiscuity but no consort, while three (!) have sworn to remain virgins forever – a choice which seems incomprehensible to a love goddess.

Athena, Artemis, and Hestia’s reasons for choosing to remain eternal virgins are all significantly different from each other, and it’s not Hestia’s business to divulge the secrets of the other two, but they do have one thread in common, which she explains to Aphrodite: they wanted to remain independent.  They did not want to partner themselves forever to a man; did not want to be burdened with the obligations of raising babies.  Demeter had chosen the path even less traveled, by opting out of the partnership with a man but taking an enthusiastic interest in sex and the raising of babies.

So really, given Aphrodite’s views on free love for everyone, combined with this understanding of marriage as being a partnership between a man and a woman… her decision to marry Hephaestus when most of her heart belonged to Ares makes perfect sense.

She gushes enthusiastically to Hestia in the days leading up to the wedding, as Hestia listens with growing dread.  Aphrodite clearly doesn’t realize how seriously she’s meant to take monogamy. Hestia tries to inject a warning once or twice, but Aphrodite is so eager to embark on marital joy that she doesn’t hear it.  

She loves Ares, of course she does.  Any fool can see it.  But Ares is a tough lad, she says, and he’s pretty capable of taking care of himself. Hephaestus… he’s sensitive, Aphrodite says.  He’s at a loss how to live up here, just as much an outsider as she was, and she thinks that the two of them can complement each other beautifully.  He’ll find a new purpose and direction, in caring for her and raising a family.  She, in turn, will give him confidence and the love he needs.  They’ll be a  _power couple_ , she declares.  Meanwhile, it goes without saying, she’ll still be in service as a love goddess. The world needs her.  Ares needs her.

Poor, naïve Aphrodite.

After the inevitable happens, after her return from self-exile in Paphos, Aphrodite comes to Hestia: she’s a changed goddess.  Bitterness, disappointment, and anger have seeped into her heart, where once there was only carefree joy and laughter.  At last, too late, she sees the downside of jealousy.

It’s easy enough for Hestia not to judge.  She knows well how much Aphrodite loved both men; knows that there was room in her heart for both and many more without contradiction.  

Hestia was not present at the scandalous debacle with the chains and the naked lovers – no woman was, except Aphrodite herself – but she’s heard, and her heart aches with humiliation for the goddess.  Surprisingly, though, Aphrodite is not terribly concerned about the exposure, and assures Hestia that she has already ‘explained things’ to the gods who had been present, that their insensitive response had been  _pretty fucking annoying_.

(Hestia hears about all that later, from the gods themselves, and is impressed – even from a position of humiliation and disgrace, Aphrodite is more than capable of firing back at any detractors)

In any case, Aphrodite is wiser now for the experience, and more shrewd and calculating, less inclined to forgive the others’ lack of understanding.  But she has no hard feelings for Hephaestus, apparently.  

“We hurt each other enough already,” she says.  “We spoke about it.  We’re both going to move on from this.”

Aphrodite pauses here.

“He started courting Aglaia – one of my handmaids; and his foster-sister.  I think she’ll make him happier than I could… and… I’m glad, because I was worried I might have really broken Heph’s heart, and – I didn’t want that. At all.  So I’m glad to see he’s moving on.”

She sighs and accepts the drink from Hestia.

“Wish it had all gone differently.  Still, the situation’s been handled, right?  All bad feelings addressed.”

Hestia believes that Aphrodite believes this – for now, at least.  The goddess has changed, for certain, but she hasn’t yet reached the point where the negative feelings consume her, like with some of the others.


	4. Hephaestus

“I should never have come here,” Hephaestus observes often.  He’s quiet when he says this – he’s always quiet with Hestia.  The rest of Olympus has only seen his anger manifest itself as quivering with rage, but Hestia mostly sees him in his low moods – voice soft and dull, eyes fixed on the head of his cane without seeing it.

It had taken Hephaestus a while to visit her at first, in spite of their common domain of fire.  He hadn’t known that about her; that they used the same element in different ways.  He hadn’t known much about any of them when he arrived on Olympus, surrounded by shouting and anger and the extreme peril of having entrapped the Queen of Heaven and showing no inclination to back down, even in the face of Zeus’ volatile fury, even in the face of the other assembled gods uniting for once in supporting Hera.  

It had been Hestia who had enabled the offer of the throne on Olympus, since the number twelve had been decided upon and she didn’t want to see the negotiations drag out over whether Hephaestus could stay or leave, or if Dionysus had to.  She felt almost sick with sorrow when she saw her sister still trapped in the chair, eyes wide and streaming tears, unable to speak or move, and wanted the entire affair done with.  What was a throne to humble Hestia?  She wanted to save her family.

So reaching out to Hephaestus had probably been the greatest strain on Hestia’s capacity for warmth and forgiveness, and it took her a few days to work up the calmness she needed to do so – but after seeing Hephaestus’ near-frantic desperation for a friendly face, she relents and warms up to him properly.  

The worries pour out of him like water, serving to quench the heat of his emotions from earlier:

He already regrets accepting the bribe of a throne on Olympus, which surprises Hestia – like the others, she had assumed that gaining leverage had been his main purpose in trapping Hera.  But Hephaestus admits that he mostly wanted vengeance for his abandonment, and hadn’t thought through the consequences.  Standing there before King Zeus, with his twisted legs aching from the strain of trying to support him, spine aching from the strain of trying not to shake with anger and the sudden fear, surrounded by furious and threatening gods… Hephaestus had realized he’d gone to this into this lethal confrontation without any idea how dangerous it would be, nor what he even wanted beyond acknowledgement.  And he’d certainly gotten  _that_.

So when Hestia had given up her throne, allowing it to be offered to him, Hephaestus had grabbed at it with no real interest in having it.  Just like her, he had wanted the affair done with.  And now he’s set a precedent for himself as being this spiteful twisted creature who manipulated the mighty gods of Olympus into allowing him into their presence, when he considers himself to be a workaholic nerd who’d rather be working on a new metalsmithing technique than being embroiled in this kind of drama.

This pattern repeats itself for Hephaestus over and over.  He tries to live a mild-mannered life; gets tangled in the drama of Olympus in spite of himself; overreacts with anger; bites off more than he meant to chew.

He never stops feeling like an outsider among the other gods, which is unfortunate, because after the dust settled, they accepted him pretty easily.  Their unspoken awe at the way Hephaestus faced the full wrath of Olympus – including a visibly furious Zeus – went a long way towards earning him respect.  He just can’t see it, no matter how many times Hestia brings it up.

There’s a while when he does seem to be on an upward trajectory – he’s begun to settle in. The gods all are amazed with his craftsmanship and are constantly commissioning him for armor, jewelry, other trinkets; they shower him with their compliments.  So many commissions pile up on him that he’s assigned assistants, and of these, he adores the monstrous Cyclopes the most.  They have a great deal in common, after all – talented smiths with unfortunate physical features.  Even Athena, against all expectations, takes an interest in him. They also have much in common: clever gods of craftsmanship, born of only a single parent.

Aphrodite loves him. Hephaestus is first stunned; then doubtful; then marveling; then overjoyed.  For a few moments, he’s on top of the world.

It ends.

He doesn’t come to her immediately in the aftermath of the affair – none of the three of them do. In fact, the only one who will discuss it directly is Aphrodite.  The two brothers never speak of it directly again.

The closest Hephaestus comes to mentioning the affair is when he visits Hestia’s hearth again after the wedding of Cadmus and Harmonia.  He’s come with a confession: he’s pretty sure he cursed his wedding gift to the daughter of Aphrodite and Ares.

“It wasn’t my intention, I mean, I just… when I make things.. I put my heart into them.  And I guess my heart was still full of poison. I guess I didn’t get over it.  But what am I going to do?  Open that whole can of worms again?  They… they’re over it.  Everyone’s moved on, I can’t keep… dwelling on it.  No one wants to deal with this drama again.”  

He sighs heavily, sounding thoroughly miserable.  “I should never have come here.”

Hestia could have told him that he wouldn’t the first to discover he’s not really ‘over it.’  Zeus and Hera revisit their quarrels constantly. The feud between Poseidon and Athena is never-ending.  Demeter and Hades’ compromise with Persephone is a fragile thing and is 100% going to break into more fights before they’re done –  _if_  they’re ever ‘done.’  There’s any number of combinations of gods or goddesses who fight, sometimes mildly and sometimes savagely, eventually lose interest, get along for a while, and start it back up again later.  It’s all part and parcel of being part of the strong-willed family of Olympus.

But Hephaestus can’t adjust. The strain of the constant melodramatics and antagonism, which the other gods manage to compartmentalize in order to function… it’s all too much for one introverted, hardworking man who spent the formative years of his life quietly making jewelry in a grotto under the sea.  

So Hestia breaks her no-advice rule, just this once.  Surely she has built up enough credit as a neutral sounding board by now, that she can cash in on it to help this lost and hurting young god.  And she’s not at all sure that Hephaestus will be able to save himself if she doesn’t.

“You absolutely should have come here,” she says, firmly.  “You needed to be acknowledged as the son of Hera; you needed to find your family and establish yourself as the god of the forge.  It was the right decision to come.”  

He makes a noncommittal noise, rubbing a thumb over his cane.  She continues:

“…But that doesn’t mean you have to stay.”

Hephaestus finally looks up.

“Artemis stays in the wilderness with her nymphs; Apollo spends about half his time with her. Poseidon spends most of his time under the sea.  Hermes is almost never actually here in person.  Dionysus has probably only spent ten combined days here so far, after working so hard to earn his place.. and yet, he is a god of Olympus.  We all are. You don’t have to stay here, if it’s too much for you.  Keep a forge in your palace for short visits, and live somewhere else.  Come back whenever you like; leave whenever you’re done.”

Hephaestus hesitates, taking this in.  Hestia waits; having said her piece.  None of the things she said were secrets – they’re just open facts, something every other god takes for granted.  But she’s certain that Hephaestus still didn’t realize that his throne – and, symbolically, his place on Olympus – it’s his.  He won’t lose it.  He doesn’t need to guard it

“…That’s… true, isn’t it? The others all go away to places….”

“All the time,” she assures him.

“I could go to that volcano in Sikleia,” he says, visibly warming up to the idea.  “Etna.  Set up a forge there.  Bring the Cyclopes.”

“And your handmaidens, if you liked.”

“Nah.  Nah, I’d leave them here.  For when I come back to visit.”  He offers her a shy smile and she’s so glad to see it.  There have been days recently when she feared this young god was going to lose his smile permanently.

She returns the smile. “Just be certain, when you set up a new palace, that you create a hearth as well.  I’d like to be able to visit from time to time.”


	5. Ares

The god of war refuses to talk about his feelings, ever.   _Ever_.  

Well, that’s not precisely true.  But Ares’ hearthside visits are uniquely different from anyone else’s – mostly to do with content.

One could be forgiven for thinking the profanity-laced dialogue meant he was coming to Hestia to rant, like everyone else, but Hestia realizes quickly that this is just the way he talks.  In fact, the topics he discusses are rarely things that displease him.

Ares talks obliquely about how he and Aphrodite are ‘doing…things’ (she finds it endearing how they all demur to speak too directly of sex to her, as though being a virgin means she has no idea what goes on).  He talks about how Hermes and Artemis are helping him get back into shape after his year with the Aloadai.  He talks about how he got the last payment in to Hephaestus and he finally feels free; he talks, later, on how Hephaestus had made a necklace for Harmonia’s wedding, and it breaks Hestia’s heart how enthusiastic Ares is, now that he’s sure things are all probably totally great between the two brothers.  

Some of his cheerful reports are… petty.  He’s positively gleeful when he describes the way Athena looked like a stupid fat-faced chipmunk when she played the double oboe.  Or he’ll talk about how he managed to land a punch on Apollo and it was  _awesome_.  Yes, he got soundly beaten afterwards, but the beauty of that moment when Ares managed to do it, when Apollo’s stupid smug pretty face had an instant to look surprised before it was inconvenienced by Ares’ fist?

Fuckin’  _amazing_.

But whether his mood is petty or uplifting, Ares doesn’t actually complain about much of anything to Hestia.  He comes to her and talks about the great things in Ares’ life, and it’s a slow, creeping realization that for him, his secret vulnerability is his happiness. He doesn’t need to complain to her. The whole world knows about it when something pisses him off; he doesn’t need a safe place to discuss that.  

Ares needs Hestia to talk about the things that make him happy.  He’s afraid to say it in front of the others, in case they take it from him, or mock him, or punish him for it.  Hestia’s hearth is his sanctuary to take out his fragile joy and share it with someone.

She suspects there are darker sorrows that he may be hiding.  It’s easy to see in the cracks of what he doesn’t say.  In particular: the incident with the Aloadai; the attack on his daughter Alcippe and his subsequent trial; the exposure of his affair with Aphrodite.  All these things seem like they should be a big deal, and afterwards he vanishes from anyone’s radar for a few months… and when he returns, he’s almost aggressively cheerful.  He speaks of all the great things going on and clams up if she even suggests anything bad might be happening to him.

After the Trojan War, he doesn’t visit Hestia’s hearth for almost three years.  The first thing he talks about after that time, is how Aphrodite is trying something new with her hair and he really likes it, it makes her look even more gorgeous than ever before.

No mention at all of any of the things that have brought the other gods to her, cursing and weeping… no mention of Zeus’ cruel words to him, which was even mentioned with regret by Zeus himself, burdened though he was with many other sorrows and strains during that war.  The closest Ares comes to complaining during this talk is admitting that he’s missed Eris, and it was good to see her again, even if it was only for work.

Hestia worries about Ares, and wishes he could speak to her more frankly; but she doesn’t want to push him too far.  She’s glad at least that he shares his joys with her, and she protects his secret happiness as much as she does the other gods’ confessions of anger or jealousy.  


	6. Selene

The celestial Titans are infrequent visitors to Hestia’s hearth, given that they spend much of their time in the sky, where there is no hearth.  It’s a disadvantage, in that their time to socialize with their young new allies is limited – but it’s an advantage, too, in that they’re usually far-removed from the dramatics that plague the earth-oriented gods.  

All three of them express a certain detached amusement for the fireworks: these colorful bursts of emotion they can see from their place in the sky.  Although they find themselves drawn with curiosity to the excitement, they struggle to relate.

Selene, far and away the most placid of the three, tends to witness the highest number of romantic interludes, since they so often take place at night.  This is the thing that intrigues her the most, and as such, her conversations tend to revolve around sex a lot.

She’s a welcome guest member of the ‘wine moms’ regular meetups – that is, Hera, Demeter, and Hestia herself.  After the sisters were thrown up by their father, Selene was the first of their Titan allies to embrace them and provided them a great deal of help, getting used to the world.  They’ve remained close, and Hera and Demeter are often entertained by Selene’s frank speech.

“So you really took Pan up on it?” Demeter asks, grinning in delight.

Selene shrugs.  She doesn’t really ‘get’ the Olympians’ hangups about who one should or shouldn’t sleep with, and has no inclination to figure it out.  “Why not? He’s an amusing fellow.  Not terribly fetching to look at, I admit, but they can’t all be handsome as Zeus.”

Selene has the honor of being one of exactly two bedfellows of Zeus that Hera likes – mainly because their affair happened years before Hera became Queen, and Selene firmly and politely removed herself from his consideration after the marriage.  They now routinely swap droll and dirty stories about his prowess in bed.

The Wine Moms cackle at the comparison of Pan to Zeus.  “He’s always trying to win me over,” Demeter giggles.  “He promised me once that he’d be such a great lay that it’d make my head spin; that I’d be seeing stars in the daylight and hear music for three days after.  Well, Selene, how was it?  Did he come through on such lofty promises?”

“Not at all,” comes the serenely brutal reply, sending the other three into gales of laughter again. “But to be fair, he seemed so taken aback that someone finally took him up on his offer, that it took him a bit to rally.  He found his groove eventually and was a perfectly adequate lover.”

The Wine Moms are howling. “Adequate!  Poor Pan!”

Selene’s emotional distance keeps her above the fray, so she rarely comes to Hestia with any unhappiness. Which isn’t to say she’s exempt, though.

In a rare private visit, she worries at length about the shepherd Endymion.

“I see so many of these affairs end in grief.  It’s why I enjoyed my time with Pan so much, to be frank – he’s immortal, for one thing, and incapable of dwelling on sorrow.  I knew full well that whatever became of the two of us as a couple… afterwards, whether one year later or a thousand, Pan would still be alive and merry.  Same reason I enjoy the company of Artemis. She is eternal, and… sturdy.”

She sighs, pouring herself more of her drink.  “I’m afraid to even touch Endymion.  He’s so innocent, and fragile.  Loving him would drag him into our world of jealousy and danger… it would probably doom him to a sad and early end.  And yet, selfishly, when I think of myself in the future, remembering with regret how I never took the chance…”

“Is apotheosis an option?” Hestia asks.

Selene winces.  “I suppose it is.  I wouldn’t dare to try it myself, though – it didn’t work out well for Eos.  I guess it’s always an option to ask my ex-lover to immortalize my current lover so I can marry him, though I can’t say I’m enthusiastic about my chances.”

Hestia can unfortunately see the difficulties of this too well.  It’s about a fifty/fifty chance of success or devastating consequences, when a god falls for a mortal… and slightly worse odds for a goddess, typically, because they have more to fear from jealous gods.

Selene’s sister Eos, the dawn, has been walking that fine line between success and failure for a while now - or at least, that’s what she wants everyone to think.


	7. Eos

The Dawn is an elusive goddess.  She races across the sky, faster than either of her siblings, soaring on her own wings rather than relying on a chariot like the other two.  

She precedes her brother by only a few moments of the day, and yet manages to catch up with her sister on the western edge of the world almost before Selene has fully completed her journey.  When Eos is done, she typically vanishes from everyone’s view for the rest of the day and night – well, everyone’s view except Helios, who only says she’s ‘out exploring.’  

She occasionally returns with a lover.  These have all ended in tragedies, uniform in sorrow and completely different from each other in detail: Kephalos, who pined for his wife until Eos returned him, and then the two mortals’ jealousy destroyed each other.  Orion, who left Eos for Artemis and was killed for his presumption.  Tiphonus, who Eos loved deeply – more than any other lover she’s had

Eos has only seen Hestia a handful of times outside of group events, and only once in confidence; but the secret she shares that day is a knockout.

She’s killing time at the moment – delaying her flight across the sky, at Athena’s request. Evidently Athena was so pleased at finally managing to get her favorite mortal her home, that she requested both Eos and Helios wait before attending to their duties, so that Odysseus could have that much longer with his beloved Penelope on his first night back.

“Bro-bro’s still arguing with her about it,” Eos informs Hestia, helping herself to the snacks Hestia has laid out.  “He’s still pissed because it was Odysseus’ crew who ate all his cattle.  By the time he’s actually finished arguing, it’ll already be past time to go anyway.  Dummy. He shoulda just agreed right away if she gave him a bribe, like I did!  He’s got no sense.”

Hestia smiles.  The last she heard much from Eos, it had been during her brief fling with Ares, and most of that story came from the young god himself, who had spoken of it obliquely in dazed tones.  Eos has a certain energy that suits the youthful form she’s chosen for herself, in spite of being older than nearly anyone else here.

“So you managed to score a trinket from Athena?”

“Yup.  A tiny chlamys and sandals and a hat for Tithonus.”

A pause.  “Tithonus…?  Your husband….?”

“Yeah… obviously, they don’t generally make clothes for crickets, so I have to have it custom-made.  Athena was about to go all  _pedantic_ about it but I said if she didn’t think it could be done, I’d try my luck with Arachne… that took care of the issue.”

Hestia doesn’t doubt it. But she’s a little less hung up on the notion of Athena furiously creating a tiny set of clothes, and more intrigued by the recipient.

“I… didn’t realize he was… out and about,” she says diplomatically.

“Oh yeah, he’s still kicking!  He’s here with me now, in fact – he’s pretty much always with me.  I set him up with a fancy little pocket of his own in my satchel here… he’s probably napping now…”

She sets her satchel on her lap and gives it a gentle prod.  

“Tithonus, you awake?”

After a moment, a small cricket pokes its head out and chirps.  It definitely looks sleepy to Hestia.

The goddess of the hearth puts out her hands apologetically.  “Er – I didn’t mean you had to wake him on my account!”

“Eh, he’ll be fine. Right, Tithonus?  We had another exciting night.”

Hestia sips her beverage, to give herself a moment to think if there’s a discreet way to ask the burning question on her mind.

Eos, anticipating her curiosity, grins.

“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re dying to know.  It’s fine. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t know you were the Locked Vault of Olympian Secrets.”  The Dawn makes a key-turning gesture at the corner of her mouth.  Hestia smiles and returns the gesture.

“I didn’t want to be rude, but I have to admit, I’m extremely curious.  I’d heard Tithonus was… well…”

“Shriveled up in a locked room somewhere?  An eternally old man, begging for death?  Prey to the love of the goddess of the dawn?”  She exchanges a smug look with the cricket – Tithonus.  “Yeah, that’s a misconception we like to cultivate.”

“Misconception?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the gods are assholes sometimes,” Eos says, getting no argument from Hestia.  

Eos continues. “Calypso dragged on her affair with Odysseus way too long, but she was dead right when she bitched about the gods. The favored mortal of a goddess is probably at bigger risk, because we have to navigate around the jealousy of the gods.  Selene and Helios think Athena’s the exception, but I think that’s why she fights so hard to protect her favorite mortals.  That’s why I figured she’d agree to making that stuff for Tithonus. That plus the Arachne comment.

“Anyway, me and Tithonus knew the risks when we fell in love, and we came up with a plan.  I’d ‘fuck up’ giving him immortality, and let him age.  He agreed to suffer through it for a while – and after he’d visibly shriveled away in misery and started begging for death, I took him into his room.  When he came out, he was so shrunken and withered that everyone said he looked like a cricket.  Well, duh, because that’s what I changed him into.”

Hestia blinks.  “A curse… that countered the blessing…”

“Right.  I mean, in an ideal world, he’d be an eternally youthful young man and it’d be great.  But some of the other gods were already eyeing him sideways, and this was just after Hyacinthus died, so we were paranoid that he’d either get stolen away or killed off.  So we came up with the idea of a ‘curse,’ so people would lose interest in him.  And it worked!”

Hestia looks at Tithonus a little doubtfully.  He appears to be asleep again.  “And… he’s okay with that?”

“He’s living the dream. Every day, he comes with me in our flight across the sky.  No one even knows he’s there.  He sees the whole world from up there: every mountain, every river, every city.  After we’re done, we explore everywhere else we can, during the day.  We make a game of it… he picks a place at random, describes it to me, and I try to figure out where he was looking by the description and go there.  I can fly us to places he’d never have been able to see. In the evening, we settle down and he sings me a few songs while I unwind from all the flying around, and then I change into a cricket myself and we have hot cricket sex.”

Hestia spits out her beverage – the first time in her memory that someone has startled her into doing so – and begins laughing.

“H-hot…oh dear, ahahaha…!”

“Yeah, sorry if I scandalized you,” Eos grins unapologetically.  “But I may as well add, while I’m at it: Tithonus is a stud by cricket standards.”

“Oh please, enough!” Hestia giggles, holding up her hand.

“It took some adjustment but we’re pretty pleased with the results.”

“Sounds like it.” Hestia takes a minute to calm down. “I have to admit, I’m… impressed. I’ve heard a lot of stories from goddesses worried about that same thing, but no one’s ever come up with such a creative solution.”

“Well, just remember, Locked Vault?  I don’t want anyone to know we’re secretly having the time of our lives.”

There’s a twinge of regret – it’s a shame that this kind of caution is necessary –  but Hestia nods.  

“I’m glad you figured out a way around it.  I won’t do anything to risk it.”

There’s a pause in the conversation – which is filled with the noise of Helios’ angry stomping.  

Eos stretches and stands up. “Guess bro-bro finally put his foot down… I’d better be off.”

“Before you go…” Hestia begins.  Eos glances over.  

“I’m also the goddess of architecture.  Perhaps I could design a little house for him.  With a tiny candle for a hearth.”

Eos grins again – a little wider this time.  “That’d be awesome.”


	8. Helios

All three of the celestial Titans are better at taking the long view of things than the other gods – this is due in part to the wisdom of their years, as they are many centuries older than Hestia and her siblings; and partly due to the nature of their divine tasks. The celestial Titans are distant and all-seeing.  The sisters tend to be warier with this knowledge, preferring to take very calculated risks and they tend towards keeping themselves protected.

Their brother Helios is a little bit more involved in earthly affairs – perhaps because he lingers in the sky longer than Eos, to see more of what goes on; and perhaps because people tend to do more of their exciting actions during his daylight hours. He finds it fascinating; and is generally more tolerant of mortals’ inadvertent offenses – to the point where Herakles fired an arrow at him in annoyance for being ‘too damn hot’ and Helios only laughed, delightedly, at the demigod’s ballsiness; and pestered him with a million jokes about how Herakles has no idea how right he is about Helios being hot stuff.  Then he cheerfully loaned Herakles his personal boat to get around on the sea.

He kept the arrow, and showed it to Hestia once:  “If that kid makes it up here, I’m gonna bring this up every damn day to make fun of him.  What a little shit.”

Helios likes to think of himself as some kind of wild-card rebel, which is laughable – he’s certainly one of the most responsible gods in the pantheon, and he’s as honest as the day is long.  The only justification for his vision of himself is that he defected from his family-tribe, the Titans, in support of Zeus.  

Whatever the deal was, between him and Zeus, is mostly a secret – how the young god, pursued by the creatures his father set upon him, managed to convince Helios to betray his family and join Zeus instead.  If you ask Helios himself, he tells a grand story about how Zeus had produced the most amazing sacrifice Helios had ever seen, and how could anyone say no to that?! No further details are forthcoming.

This could be the source of his wish to be seen as a wild rebel – and perhaps, makes it easier to explain why Helios had chosen to abandon his family in favor of the small fry. Helios does tend to favor the underdog, in most cases.

He comes to Hestia to talk after the dust had settled (somewhat) from the First Winter.  Zeus is angry with Helios for ratting him out, to which Helios takes personal offense.  

“Demeter’s my  _friend_ ,” he says, looking upset as he paces circles around the hearth.  “We’ve been friends for years and years – he thinks I’m just gonna sit around and watch her sob, thinking her daughter’s dead?  Or – like, as far as Demeter knows, she’ll never see Kore again!  I know Hades is a nice enough guy, but – Kore’s her daughter!  It was a totally dick thing to do!”

Trying to stay neutral in this conflict has been nearly impossible for Hestia.  It’s harder even than watching Hera rage about Zeus’ affairs, because at least Hera can see her opponent, and take action as she sees fit. Demeter knew nothing, only that the dearest person in her life had been ripped away from the earth and after that, silence.  

She hasn’t heard from Kore yet – Persephone, as she’s now known.  Hestia’s heard that the matter was apparently more complicated than it had appeared; but that’s all she knows beyond what she saw, which was two of her brothers bringing agony to their sister.  And yet, Hestia will have to find the strength to stay neutral if Zeus or Hades approaches her – she is not just Hestia, who loves her sister; she is The Hearth and The Home, and she has a duty.  She has to be there for  _all_  of them, regardless of her own feelings.

So she can’t join Helios in bitching about the plot against Demeter, but she feels like there’s no harm in bending her own rules, just a little, just this once.

“I know Demeter is grateful to you.  You were her only true ally other than Hekate, and I know your friendship with her will be stronger for this.  I don’t know when Zeus will finish being angry about his plan going awry, but he’s reaping what he sowed so fuck him.”

This terrible language from Hestia the Sweet and Pure shocks Helios into laughter.  “H-holy shit!  I didn’t even know you could swear!”

She smiles at him. It’s funny – she, also, feels a bit of pressure lift from her shoulders, having cursed.  Maybe there was a value in vulgar language that she’d never been able to appreciate before.  Maybe if she swears for a while, she’ll be in a better state to face her brothers.  “I can, and I do.  And for my part, I am also grateful to you.  Watching my sister suffer was unbearable.”

“Yeah.  I don’t understand how anyone can stand by and watch something like that.”

The opportunity to throw himself in the middle of a big dustup comes again; this time with the affair of Ares and Aphrodite.  This is the biggest open secret in Olympus – the only person who doesn’t know, is Hephaestus.  

Hestia doesn’t know what steps the others may have taken to prevent this disaster – for Hestia’s part, she’s tried to give subtle hints to Hephaestus that he might want to talk to his wife more – but he’s not picking it up.  He a simple soul; he grew up completely removed from the concept of so much drama, and doesn’t know how to read the signs.  

Helios paces around the hearth.

“Someone’s got to tell him. This ain’t right.  They’re letting it drag out forever – I don’t even care about Ares and Aphrodite; people have affairs, whatever, it happens.  But letting him go on like this, letting him be fooled for this long – it’s not right.  He has a fucking soul too.”

And so Helios boldly places himself in the middle of it, and rats out Ares and Aphrodite.  He’s right, in that everyone probably would have let it go on for eternity, rather than have the difficult conversation with the awkwardest god on Olympus, that his wife is cheating on him with his brother.

Helios’ role is nearly forgotten by everyone in the chaos that ensues – the chains, the naked lovers, the exile, the first divorce.  Helios feels dejected about the entire outcome, though.

“I don’t know if I even did any good, in the end.  That poor kid.  I just hate it – he must have felt like all of Olympus was against him.  Like with Demeter – this conspiracy of silence while their lives fall apart.”

“At least you gave him agency,” Hestia offers.  “Rather than him drifting along on the whims of everyone else.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Helios sighs.  “Sometimes I wish I could just – not care, so much.  It’d certainly be easier that way.”

“You wouldn’t be the sweet grandpa we all know and love, if you didn’t care as much as you do,” Hestia points out, making him laugh again.  As the oldest (sort-of) inhabitant of Olympus, he’s been affectionately named “The Grandpa” by everyone else.

Helios does care a great deal for the family he chose to join.  He’s grown quite fond of Apollo, though you’d never guess it to see the two of them argue with and annoy each other.  

Things were a little bit dicey for a while, from what Hestia could see, though neither one of them chose to speak of the details to her.  Apollo was still fairly young, then, and approached Helios with the intent of partnering with him in the war against the Giants – and taking on some of the Sun’s duties in exchange.

The timing was poor. This was shortly after Phaethon was killed.  Helios had come to her then – no words, just sobbing.  She doesn’t think he found consolation anywhere else.  His sisters were still fairly remote from humanity then, and didn’t ‘get’ his affection for these mortals who flashed in and out of existence so quickly.  The other gods of Olympus sympathize, but what else was Zeus to do?  Phaethon’s wild flight was scorching the entire earth, he couldn’t just let the world burn.

Hestia doesn’t know if Helios will ever fully come to terms with the tragedy – probably he will.  The celestial Titans have always been good at seeing the big picture.  But immediately afterwards, no.  Not when he was sobbing into her lap, unable to even hold himself upright.  

And so soon after Phaethon’s death, there came Apollo – a son of Zeus, asking to take on the exact same responsibilities that had gotten Phaethon destroyed.

But, they must have reached some accord, because eventually, Apollo and Helios are partnered as sun gods, just as Selene and Artemis are partnered as moon goddesses, and they grow closer over time.  Hestia observes this to him, once, and Helios replies flippantly:

“Well, yknow, he’s got balls coming to me trying to strike a deal, and I love balls.  Name of your sex scroll – ah, never mind, inappropriate joke.”

Hestia rolls her eyes and tries not to laugh.  “I’m sure he appreciates that detail.”

“Plus, he’s… well, immortal, yknow?  He’ll last a while.”  Echoes of Selene’s observation about Artemis.

It’s particularly wretched for him, then, when Apollo gets banished to earth as a mortal.

Helios is not permitted to help mortal-Apollo – part of the god’s punishment is figuring out how to fend for himself or die trying.  So Helios paces around the hearth, gritting his teeth.

“When he gets back up here – a god again – I swear by the fuckin’ Styx – this stupid kid, did he fuckin’  _forget_  what his dad’s like?? He’s fuckin’ – I swear – ”

He’s inarticulate with worry.  Hestia has heard from Artemis regarding this – Artemis, also, is forbidden from helping Apollo, though she’s less inclined than Helios to follow the rules.  Hestia knows that Ares, also, has gone to keep an eye out for Apollo, though she’s resignedly aware that the socially inept god has probably not made a positive impression.

Still, Apollo is mortal at this time, and could possibly die and be gone from them forever.  So it’s a relief to all of them when the exile is done and Apollo returns.

No one is more relieved than Helios, though.

“I hope this little shit learned something from all this, at least,” he confides to her.  “These kind of tantrums are dangerous – maybe he’ll learn to calm the fuck down before he goes off on a rampage.”

Hestia doubts it, personally, and she actually hopes the opposite.

Helios may be able to see the big picture from his place in the heavens; he may be a moral compass because of that; but he still plays by the rules; still plays it safe.  Hestia hopes that Apollo can drag him out of that distance he keeps from the rest of them, at least a little bit

After all, when Helios’ son was killed, Helios didn’t feel he could do anything about it, and only wept to Hestia.  When Apollo’s son was killed, he stormed up to Olympus and was prepared to start a war with the king, his father.  Reckless, perhaps, but no one can argue that Apollo is in touch with his emotions, whereas Helios… hides them behind jokes and distance.


	9. Apollo

Apollo remains mysterious to Hestia for quite a long time – odd, considering how aggressively he appears to wear his heart on his sleeve.  Everything he does, he does with all his heart.  The favored son of Zeus is very emotional… but also, very complicated.

It’s strange.  Apollo visits her hearth probably more often than anyone besides Hera and Demeter, and he often weeps or rages at length… and yet, she struggles to get a solid grasp on his character. 

From the very start, after Apollo and his sister made their formal entrance to Olympus, Apollo had been charming and friendly and had made himself at home beside Hestia at her hearth.  He had composed a simple song in her honor on the fly as he sat there one day, and its beauty still follows her centuries later.  His talent cannot be overstated; nor can his beauty, gracefulness, and kindness.

But Hestia has been around godly beauty before, as it’s encompassed by the gods; so she isn’t terribly shocked when Apollo’s wrath manifests itself eventually. 

It’s not as though moodiness is unique to Apollo.  Far from it: that’s par for the course among the Olympians.  And yet, the other gods’ moods (and the escalation thereof) are tied to clear events.  Apollo is more unpredictable.  He flips back and forth swiftly: when he’s in a good mood, he’s polite, charismatic, gentle.  When he’s in a bad mood, he goes nuclear, and it’s nearly impossible to guess what will set him off.  Even for Hestia, who has the privilege of hearing him speak of his sorrows.

Sometimes he cries for hours with no apparent reason for it.  He’ll sob that he’s cursed to never find love, that his lovers will all betray him or die.  This wouldn’t seem so unusual – Apollo does seem to have unfortunate luck in his romantic overtures – but often, his misery comes on a day when as far as Hestia knows, he hasn’t sought any romantic company at all recently.

Apollo occasionally rages – about the damn mortals who disrespect his mother; about the arrogant satyrs who think they’re better than him and have no fucking decency to them; about stupid giants who don’t know when they’re not wanted; about sneaky women who think they can manipulate him into blessing them and still reject his love.  These complaints, too, come out of nowhere, with no events Hestia can think of to connect to them.

He broods at length about his father – the unfair punishments he receives, and how even though Apollo is clearly his best son, Zeus visits his worst wrath on him.  At the time of these dark thoughts, though, he seems to be on fairly good terms with his father, so the complaints are bewildering.

On one occasion, he can only sit with his face in his hands.  “It’s too cruel,” he whispers.  “Too cruel.  I don’t know how to react right.”  He doesn’t elaborate, and Hestia has no idea how to console him.

And yet, when things do actually happen – when his pride is insulted; when he is betrayed; when his children are slain – he sits calmly beside her afterwards and says only that “it came to pass, after all.”

Adding to Hestia’s bewilderment is the fact that no one else seems to find him terribly confusing as she does – they only find it difficult to predict how far his feelings will take him, after something has happened. 

As it turns out, this is the biggest red herring in solving the Apollo Mystery:  assuming that his emotions at the hearth correspond to the events that set them off… or the actions he took at the time. 

The first clue comes after an offhanded remark she makes to Hermes one day.  Hestia notes that she hasn’t heard Apollo play the lyre in a while and she’s going to request him to play her something the next time he visits.  Hermes’ face slips from his usual mischievous smile to a look of sincere alarm.

“Nooooooo way!!  Uh-uh!  Nix that idea, Auntie Hess – jeez, didn’t anyone tell you?”

Hestia is startled.  “Tell me what?”

“About Maryas?  Afterwards, he tore the strings from his lyre in regret.”

Hestia has heard none of this.  She listens, quietly horrified, as Hermes explains that the satyr had lost a music competition to Apollo and had been flayed alive for his arrogance (there had been an implication, from the satyr, that if Apollo lost, he’d been Marsyas’ sexual slave).  Apparently, Apollo had been watching impassively as the satyr had screamed, and then abruptly had drawn an arrow and fired it into the exposed chest cavity, finally ending the suffering.  In tears, he had torn the strings from his lyre and sworn he couldn’t bear to touch the instrument.

The last time Apollo had visited her, he had mentioned none of this.  He had only commented on how his father would never trust him.

The details of the story are sordid enough that Hestia almost forgets what had been niggling at her – a rant, many years ago, about arrogant satyrs; and a nearly-silent hour spent with his face in his hands, whispering about cruelty.

_I don’t know how to react right._

The second clue comes after Cyrene becomes a nymph.

All of Olympus has been bracing itself – Cyrene had been a mortal woman that Apollo had taken for a wife, equally impressed with her beauty, her independence, and her fighting skills.  As often happens with busy deities, though, Apollo lost track of his mortal lover over the years, and in her loneliness, Cyrene accepted companionship with Ares of all people, and had a child by him.

When confronted with this information… Apollo gave her a kiss on the cheek, apologized for being neglectful, and released her from their marriage… after turning her into a nymph, so that she could live longer. 

Hestia doesn’t hear about Cyrene from Apollo, but from Ares.  He likes her a lot, and talks about how they wrestle all the time and she’s really good at it and sometimes he lets her win and now that she’s a nymph they can hang out even longer!

Hestia smiles and encourages his happiness and delicately asks about how the nymph transformation came about. 

Ares shrugs.  “Dunno what he was thinking.  I thought he was gonna be  _pissed_.  I completely expected to have to fight him so Cyrene could escape… but he just forgave her and left.  It was like he was already over it or something.”

_Already over it._

The lightbulb goes on in her head.

Apollo, the god of prophecy.  He’s already over it, because he’s already lived it.

Hestia remembers dozens of unconnected outbursts of grief or anger, over events that hadn’t even happened –  _yet_.

When he wept after Daphne, over how he would never find love, how his romantic life was doomed… at the time, Hestia had thought it odd, since Daphne was a random nymph whom he had known for less than a day, and chalked it up to a teenaged god’s hormones.  She wonders now, if he’d seen centuries of rejection and loss laid out before him that day.

She remembers annoyance over giants who don’t know when they’re not wanted… and a few decades later, Orion’s life and death.

She remembers him frowning bitterly over his father’s wrath on a day when Zeus showed no such sign… and much later, being hurtled to the earth to serve as a mortal.

She remembers… angry disdain, for arrogant satyrs.   _I don’t react right_.

Apollo sees things that will hurt him, and is unable to prevent them.  He weeps and rages to Hestia… and comes to terms with the things that will happen.  The things happen, and he doesn’t right, because he’s already lived through this.  His reactions are unpredictable.  Will he be furious?  Will he shrug and turn to his lyre?  His mood has little connection to the events, as they pan out.  He’s so dissociated from them by the time they actually occur, that he almost has to playact his reactions.  Sometimes he feels it… sometimes not.  He’s living a split reality, and as a result is detached from what’s happening in front of him.

The worst part is, even he doesn’t get to see the full events that precede the visions: he sees bits and pieces, hints and shadows, and over time he becomes more adept at interpreting them.  But he isn’t omniscient, and he was blindsided by the deaths of his son Asclepius, and his lover Hyacinthus – Apollo saw visions of a feud with Zephyrus, and Zeus punishing Apollo, but not the events leading up to them, or his emotional involvement in either one.  

These two incidents leave Hestia more worried than the others.  His reactions at the events are wild rages that endanger everyone – and yet he doesn’t process them emotionally.  After Asclepius, he is banished to serve as a mortal for a king in Greece.  After Hyacinthus, it’s even worse – Apollo goes silent and doesn’t speak of the boy to Hestia or possibly anyone else.  The only comment he has on the matter – assuming his words apply to either of his beloved boys – is “Love clouded my vision.”

This finally gives Hestia an idea for a solution. Neither she nor probably anyone else can help Apollo with his increasing detachment from reality… except one other person.

“How is your grandmother these days?  Do you see her much?” Hestia asks, as Apollo strums his lyre, managing to look both listless and perfect at the same time.

“Eh?” he glances over.  “Rhea?  Sometimes. But I’m sure you see her more than I do – ”

“No, no, I mean Phoebe?  Leto’s mother.  I haven’t seen her in quite some time, myself, but I’ve heard she’s doing better.”

Apollo frowns; a faint crinkle of his brow and downturn of his lips that does nothing to make him look less beautiful.  “Better than what?”

“Oh – well, this was before your time.  She used to have a bit of difficulty with her foresight, after Zeus took the throne, and things got… more complicated, in the world. Then all at once, she seemed to perk up again.”

Hestia sighs.  “So many of that generation is starting to return to the ether.  I feel like I should catch up with them more, while they’re still up for conversation.”

Her family doesn’t always catch the hints she gives them, but luckily, Apollo is sharp and probably desperate for a solution.  

Hestia doesn’t hear precisely what happens, but enough to know that it must have done something.  He did go to visit Phoebe at Delphi – this much she hears from Artemis – and afterwards, he’s noticeably calmer, and seems to be getting closer to the sun Titan.

She ventures to observe as much to him, sometime later, when it’s been a while with no outbursts.

“You seem like you’re happier these days, Apollo.  If that’s true, I’m glad.  You’ve certainly had your share of sorrows.”

He smiles at her, placid and peaceful where he’s making a charcoal sketch of Helios’ horses as they play in their pasture.  

“I redirected my heart – I feel better for it.”

She returns his smile, nudging him lightly (not while he’s drawing, of course).  “I don’t want to indulge in gossip, nephew, but… is it Helios?”

He raises his eyebrows.  “Where did you hear that?”

Hestia laughs.  “Well, it’s more the opposite – I didn’t hear it.  For a while, there were casual remarks about your apprenticeship to him, and the nonsense you’d get up to… then suddenly, people never mentioned the two of you to me.”  She sips her tea.  “Which, in my experience, typically means you’ve started having sexual relations. No one dares speak of such things to Auntie Hess.”

This makes him laugh – hard and uncontrolled, genuinely tickled by the observation.  Hestia allows herself to be pleased by this; it’s rare for Apollo to let loose like that. Generally only Hermes can manage it.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he finally says, wiping his eyes, somehow without smudging charcoal.  “It’s been… better, with him.  Helios is – unchanging.”

“He is.”

“It’s better to place my heart in a person like that, I think – someone who will be around forever.”

A success story, finally – this one was long overdue.  She has great hopes that Apollo and Helios can bring each other happiness.  Apollo can drag Helios out of his distance from events; Helios can be Apollo’s anchor to the here and now.

She does wish they were a little more lenient with their “sun gods exclusive club” rule – they’re quite dedicated to their new regime, as the mortal Icarus tragically learns.  She feels sorry for the poor boy, but she supposes she has to admit it’s still a lower body count than usual with Apollo’s doomed lovers.  There’s only so much a piece of good advice can do.

It isn’t until millennia later, when the boy resurfaces amid changed circumstances and the golden god of the sun begins to change yet again, that she remembers what Apollo had said, after Hyacinthus: “Love clouded my vision.”


	10. Artemis

For goddesses defined primarily by their oaths to remain virgins forever, Artemis and Hestia have little in common with one another.  Both chose eternal virginity as a way to maintain their independence, and that’s where the similarities end.

Artemis is fierce, wild, and reclusive.  There are great stretches of time when no one hears from her – particularly Hestia, whose place at the hearth is antithesis to Artemis’ natural habitat in the wilderness. Technically, the campfires count, but the spirit of them is still unique to Artemis.  This isn’t her home, the campfires say; just a place where she’s stopping to cook her food and sleep.  Artemis’ home is miles and miles of untamed forests and mountains; bears and deer and nymphs.

It’s truly astonishing, then, how much drama she can generate, for someone so actively dedicated to avoiding it. Well, after all, she’s an Olympian too, even if her throne is usually vacant.  

She doesn’t see Hestia, often – partly because of her aversion to domestic life, and partly because she is so stubbornly, fiercely unapologetic and bold in her decisions.  Whatever’s bothering her, she keeps her own counsel for the most part.  

There are a handful of exceptions: she does come in once or twice, asking if Apollo seems all right to her, or Ares.  At these times, the two gods are frankly  _not_  all right, for different reasons – but Hestia does not betray confidences, even to friends or sisters, and will only say that if Artemis is worried, she can send the two men in her life to visit Hestia to talk.

They do both show up shortly after this; with a certain hangdog expression, and Hestia suspects that the direct-dealing goddess of the hunt has probably literally kicked them in the ass to come to the hearth and heal.

In a way, her toughness and confidence is enviable, if occasionally inadvisable – she deals with the joys in her life as well as the detractors and stressors in her own unique way, never compromising her ideals, and never looking back.

Until she does look back.

Hestia had already heard of Callisto, from Hera – Hera is mellow about this one, for a change, mainly because the situation had already resolved itself before Hera even got there.  She mentions that Zeus had thrown another of his tarts into the sky, and Hera had been only mildly surprised to learn that his lover was apparently a bear.

“It took me a moment to even see that as odd, to tell the truth,” she says.  “Given the precedents.  But of course, she wasn’t always a bear.  She used to be some nymph.  Callisto.”

So Hestia is already acquainted with the story by the time Artemis makes it to the hearth, some time later.

“I don’t get it,” she says without preamble.  “Why – why would she – she should have known better!”  She looks furious, hands clenched.  “I can’t make exceptions for people!  This whole thing is so fucking fragile – I can’t risk – fuck!”

The fact that she’s here at all is noteworthy enough – and the fact that the confident, bold Artemis is reduced to stammered curses is almost cause for alarm.

Hestia wordlessly gestures to her hearth and fetches the tea.  After a moment, Artemis sits down, jerkily, and accepts the tea without drinking it immediately.  

Hestia waits a moment, to see if Artemis is going to continue; when she judges that the next dialogue must be from Hestia herself, she speaks.

“I’m here to listen, Artemis. Always.  But you’ll have to forgive me – I’m not certain what’s troubling you so badly.”  She’s pretty confident she  _does_  know, but it’s never a good idea to make assumptions.

“Callisto,” Artemis confirms, spitting out the name and then sighing.  “She – fuck.  It’s not like – I know, I get it, you make a bad decision and suddenly you’ve got to deal with it – but – she was telling people _I_  got her pregnant!”

Hestia winces.  Yes, that’s a grave insult.  Hestia sometimes wonders what compels people to do things that they must know would offend the Olympians – the gods and goddesses with notoriously twitchy egos, and comparatively incomprehensible power.  She wonders if it’s due to the gods’ collective decision to be more approachable and human in appearance and action, in an effort to connect with the humans, nymphs and daimones.  Perhaps it’s too fine a line, between being able to relate to the gods, and treating them as one of their own.

But, this doesn’t really explain Artemis’ distress.  There have been plenty of disrespectful nymphs and mortals alike who have been dealt with authoritatively by the huntress before – she never hesitated with the Niobids or Actaeon, for example.  She’s even proven herself capable of making a more sensitive decision within a heated moment, as with the nymph Siproites.

Hestia sips her tea. Artemis still hasn’t touched hers. “That’s a terribly disrespectful thing to say.  I’m not surprised you’re angry,” she offers.  

Artemis grunts, still glowering down at her tea.  “That’s not… that’s only part of it.”

“What’s the rest?”

The huntress stands up and paces. “I mean – it’s not like she’s the first virgin to get knocked up!  Shit, it happens all the damn time!”

This surprises Hestia a little. “Really?”

“Pfft, yeah.  Usually some damn shepherd… or Pan, that horny little shit. Sometimes that’s the problem with an all-girl band, is they don’t have any practice with men, yknow?  They don’t know how to cope when some idiot boy comes and cries over her beauty and swears his dick is gonna fall off if he can’t sleep with her.”

On another occasion, Hestia would laugh at Artemis’ cynical summary of the rustic romances – she must get into frequent disagreements with Pan about the utility of lonely shepherds pleading their case.  But though Artemis’ words are crudely amusing, her face is still grim.  

“But the thing is.. they all know. There can only be virgins in my retinue. They have to make the choice. Most of them leave their babies with shepherd families, and I pretend like I don’t know it’s their baby, and make sure it gets found all right.  Then they come back and I pretend like I don’t notice them keeping an eye on one particular demigod.  Or, sometimes, they decide they want the baby after all, whether or not they have the husband, and I send them away with my blessing and as much good fortune as I can give them.  Whatever. Virginity isn’t always permanent, and I  _get_  that.”

This is all news to Hestia. She had been aware that Artemis’ approach to virginity was far more focused on social independence, rather than the actual act of sex as it is with Hestia; but she hadn’t realized that there was a nearly-formalized system in place, of thumbing one’s nose at the generally accepted definition.  It’s food for thought.

For now, though:

“So… you’re not upset about her dalliance?”

“Oh, I’m  _pissed_  about that.  I already went and swore at Zeus for about an hour and a half.”  Artemis kicks a loose stone over the edge of the balcony, on the far side of the hall.  A distant ‘dammit! hey!’ in Ares’ voice can be heard.

“… She stuck around the retinue even though she was pregnant.  Even though she clearly wasn’t a virgin anymore.  I can’t cover for that.  I can help her find a family for the baby if she tries to stay secret, or I can help her start a new life, but I can’t put blinders on the whole fucking world and pretend she’s still a virgin.  She wouldn’t  _choose_.  I had to act!”

Hestia takes this in, considering. “I think I understand.  She needed to be discreet, and refused.”

“The whole thing – virginity – it’s all based on this fragile fucking construct, and the idea that once you’re stuck with a family, your independence and your whole – fucking – everything you used to be, is gone forever!  And here’s Callisto, wandering around looking like a grape on a toothpick, CLEARLY pregnant, and now people start to wonder if virginity even means anything in Artemis’ retinue.”

“Ahh.”  

“Like – I’m trying to shelter them!  I keep them independent, I keep them safe, if they fuck up I give them options, but I have to maintain this sacred space for them!  Otherwise every prick in Greece is gonna be over here thinking me and the girls are up for grabs!”

Hestia personally doubts this, but she understands – a sanctuary is a fragile thing, especially when it all depends on one goddess fighting against the tide of society.

Artemis slumps back down against the hearth’s stones.  “I thought she knew better.  Callisto – she was – like a sister, to me.  She lost her virginity – to Zeus, too, for fuck’s sake! – and wouldn’t come to me about it, wouldn’t hide to protect the other girls, wouldn’t even fess up when it was obvious she was pregnant, told everyone it must have been  _me_  that knocked her up – ”

Hestia notices, for the first time, that tears are dripping from Artemis’ eyes – this is the first time she has ever seen the huntress so miserable.  She wordlessly goes over to put her arm around the younger goddess.  Artemis flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

They sit in silence for a while, and then Artemis continues, in a broken voice:  “I had to act.  There was talk.  It was one girl versus all the rest of them.  I can’t cover for everything – I can’t make people change society all by myself, I can’t make them stop holding women to this standard.  All I can do is protect the ones in my charge…” she hiccups. “But I couldn’t protect her.”

She puts her hand over her eyes. “Why did she fucking do it!  She could have asked me for help!”

Hestia is pretty sure she knows, but doesn’t think the answer would help Artemis much.  She remembers, in the flash of thoughts and emotions that had come to her in her brief attack by Priapus.. aside from the fear and the horror, she had wondered what she was ever going to tell everyone.  In Hestia’s case, the entire ordeal had been over and resolved quickly enough that the flash of thought had been all there was time for.. but Callisto would have been able to dwell on it.  

How to tell everyone about this shameful thing that had happened – especially when she had vowed never to allow it to happen?  How to talk about something you wish hadn’t happened?  How to tell someone you admire that you’ve failed them?  How to go through with it, if the truth meant exile and solitude?

As for the “Artemis got me pregnant” – well, people panic under duress, especially if they think the other person’s going to be angry.  Zeus told Hera that he’d just been hanging out having a picnic with a cow that one time, which was an equally stupid lie.  Hestia feels sorry for Callisto and Artemis in equal measure.  

She wishes – not for the first time – that she could get Artemis and Hera to talk to each other.  Hera, too, has been driven to extremes by trying to protect a sanctuary.  Once women enter marriage, it’s all they have in the world.  Hera, also, fights the tide of society by trying to keep marriages sacred.

But Hestia doesn’t think she can push her luck today.  She doesn’t want to suggest that Artemis punished her dearest nymph when the girl was already terrified; she doesn’t want to suggest that her nemesis Hera might be able to talk to her about what it’s like to be a protector of women and make hard choices in that capacity.  Perhaps someday, if time is able to dull some of the sorrow; but for today, she chooses to only be silent and be  _here_ , a sympathetic presence, acknowledging that Artemis is grieving.

“I am truly sorry that you’re going through this,” she murmurs.  “It’s never easy, being a leader.  Anyone can see you loved her very much.”

Artemis sniffles and finally cries, quietly, keeping her face down.  Hestia keeps her arm around her and offers a handkerchief, which Artemis accepts wordlessly.

After a while, she stands up and wipes her face.

“Fuck.  I hate this,” she says miserably.  She sighs and visibly tries to compose herself.  “Thanks for listening, Aunt Hess… it helped.”

“Any time, Artemis.  I’m glad if I can make you feel any better about it.”

Artemis nods, and leaves with no further conversation.  A few days later, Hestia’s handkerchief is returned to her, washed and folded. Artemis herself is done with the confessionals, however: it’s years before Hestia sees her again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about Artemis: another complicated goddess. Actually, her actions used to seem as unpredictable and wild to me as her brother. But as I was researching I started learning more about what the concept of virginity meant to the ancient Greeks, and it’s not quite what it means today. It was a social status: a virgin was a young woman who wasn’t tied down to any obligations. If a woman was slick enough and didn’t get caught, she could have sex and still be considered a virgin. Like with the concept of rape, the word seems to have a completely different meaning in modern language than it did back then, and both centered around women being property, rather than having much (directly) to do with sex. So in my interpretation, I incorporated that concept as the reason why Callisto was punished. Artemis doesn’t like it, but she made the choice to protect everyone else in her retinue, since she can’t fight the entire world by herself and change the way people feel about women and girls. She’s distressed about it because no matter how you look at it, it’s a really depressing situation. but with that definition of virginity in mind, I think her actions make a lot more sense than when it looked like it was about slutshaming


	11. Dionysus

Dionysus doesn’t often visit Olympus – after he worked so hard to prove he could earn his place on the lofty mountain; after he wracked his addled brain to think of how he could appease Hera’s wrath; after he finally, personally, managed to orchestrate the end of the disaster of Hera on the cursed throne and broke Hephaestus back to the fold – after all this, and Hestia giving him her space on the Dodecatheon, Dionysus still prefers to spend most of his time elsewhere.  He earned his throne but is content to leave it empty outside of mandatory councils.

“My place is in the untamed spaces,” he occasionally says, flinging his arm out dramatically. “Where the souls of gods and goddesses and men and women alike, are unfettered!  Spinning free of reality!  Where sense and civility have no currency!…”

…he has a whole spiel about it.  You can just ask him.

Everyone generally agrees this is for the best; that he stays ‘out there.’  When he’s actually present within Olympus, his behavior is normally perfect, and he inspires delightful and fun parties, coaxing the best out of the sometimes intractable and ornery denizens.  But everyone is aware, to a greater or lesser degree, that these somewhat sedate parties are not what he’s famous for.

Hestia admits (only to herself) a bit of trepidation when Dionysus first approaches her hearth, a few months after Hephaestus’ exciting return.  At this point, all she really knows of him are the bitter complaints from Hera; and his somewhat frightening reputation: maenads and satyrs; orgies and murders; massive conquering armies; free movement between the worlds of male and female, sanity and insanity, living and dead.  It seems like many of the other gods also struggle with what to make of him.

But that first visit is entirely civil – even pleasant.  Whatever his prior relationship with madness, he seems to have mastered it entirely with Hera’s withdrawal of her curse.   Perhaps the increased power that comes from being a full Olympian helps as well.  In any case, Dionysus is charming and polite – a little cheeky, perhaps, but no worse than Hermes.  Hestia is curiously impressed to find that he is as deft as she at delicately manipulating a conversation.  Impressed, and amused: her gentle efforts to determine how well Dionysus is coping with the new pressures of Olympus, or Hephaestus’ coping for that matter, are just as gracefully redirected by Dionysus.  Well, mental wellness and madness both fall under the overarching umbrella of psychology, she supposes, so no real surprise that he excels in head games.

At least up here, those games are benevolent.  Dionysus is determined to keep the waters smooth and unwavy, as much as he has the power to do so; refusing to cause strife.  He is affectionate and welcoming towards his elder siblings and aunts and uncles, modifying his approach to be more formal and respectful (Athena) or less (Hermes) as the situation requires.  Following her cue, he is courteous and professional but distant with Hera.  Even Hades reportedly can only roll his eyes and chuckle at Dionysus’ bold foray into his realm.

(“His story about the frogs was very droll.  I laughed,” Hades says, face blank as always)

Hestia notes that, while Hephaestus remains a very private and gloomy soul, Dionysus is one of the few entities that consistently brings a smile to the smith’s face.  It isn’t just charisma, either, because Hephaestus remains suspicious of the charming Hermes (!).  Something about Dionysus makes him different.

These observations are still comparatively rare, though.  Dionysus really doesn’t spend that much time on Olympus.  

She mentions it off-handedly, once, when he is at her hearth on one of his rare visits.

“You’re one of my more delightful visitors, you know!  I look forward to chatting with you, but it’s so infrequent…” she laments, sipping her mulled wine.  He doesn’t prefer it, but he brings it along with him to visit her since she enjoys the sweetness.

“Ahh, well, you may see more of me eventually,” he replies, winking.  “I just thought I ought to make myself scarce for a while.”

She blinks, surprised. “Scarce?  What on earth for?  You’re quite popular here.  Everyone speaks highly of you.  That’s pretty rare, believe me.”

“Well, thank you, Auntie Hess; but that’s at least partly deliberate.  I’m making great pains to keep everyone thinking of me as the Party Guy, rather than That Guy Who Stole Beloved Hestia’s Throne,” he says, serious suddenly.

Well, damn.  “My dear, that’s – that’s nonsense, and I hope you don’t believe I feel that way!”  She wonders now, though; his polite deferences, his determination not to offend, the rarity of his visits…

Hestia makes her voice as firm as she can manage.  “To the contrary.  I’m very glad you did arrive.”  She can say this honestly now, and with a full heart, since she’s heard Hephaestus’ anxieties and sorrows, and come to terms with her own feelings about the whole uproar.  “You put an end to a long-running blight on this palace and I’m truly grateful.  I think everyone is, though they may not say it. You did what none other of us could do – you spoke to Hephaestus and convinced him to come up here and a number of wrongs to right.”

“Yeah….well…” He falls silent, staring quietly at the flames of her hearth.  Hestia holds her breath, not daring to break the spell.

After a moment, he speaks again, and any playful joviality of his voice is gone completely now.

“We had the same problem,” he says.  “Me and Heph. Neither of us were allowed on Olympus; neither of us was recognized as a god.  All you – older Olympians.  I won’t say you guys don’t have your problems too, because I know you do, but there’s a certain kind of desperation that comes of being a god who  _isn’t_  on the team.  Hephaestus fumed and plotted alone for years – most of his bitterness ate away at his own self, and then got an outlet finally with his throne attack. Me, I did a million things to try to prove I should be acknowledged.”

Hestia waits a beat. He’s speaking quietly and more hesitantly than usual; she doesn’t want to interrupt.  But when a moment passes and he seems as though he’s floundering a little, she gently prompts:

“Acknowledged?  We all knew you were Zeus’ son.”

Dionysus waves a hand dismissively.  “Yeah, I mean, everyone knew that much.  Queen Hera’s hatred made it plain.  But… acknowledged as a god.  As someone worthy of worship.”

“You wanted temples? Worshippers?”

“Only what they represented.”

Another long pause. Hestia reflects on this.

“Inclusion.”

“Yeah… yeah.  To be part of the club.”  He shrugs and quirks a small smile at her.  “I’ve been hanging out a lot with Apollo and Hermes lately. They both said the same thing… that when they were young, they felt a burning need to prove themselves worthy to be here.  Artemis, too. In their cases, they managed to find acceptance pretty quick.  When they were still kids.  Me and Heph, though… it dragged on and on.  We were kind of outcasts.  We were turned away from the gates of Olympus; but certainly weren’t mortals… you get desperate.”

“I don’t think anyone here realized,” Hestia murmurs.  She thinks it must be true, what he said – that none of the older Olympians knows what it means to doubt your identity.  

Dionysus’ tongue has loosened, though, and he carries on without hearing her.  “It seemed like I couldn’t do enough – I conquered all of India! All the world save Aethiopia and Britain!  I was taught by Rhea!  I created the vine!  I – I came down hard on disbelievers, harder than I wanted to… and after I’d set them up to fail.”  He swallows. “I feel… pretty bad, about some of that.”

She puts her hand on his shoulder.  “I wish I’d known.”

“Wasn’t much you could do about it.  It’s just how the chips fell.  Not much anyone could do, really.”

“Well, that’s not true,” Hestia says.  “As it turned out, there was a lot that you could do, in the end.”

Another short silence. “I didn’t even think it would work. I just… felt bad for him. Heph.  I knew how he felt.  And I knew that if he didn’t do something to fix it, things were going to be… really bad for him.  I wanted him to have at least one guy on his side if it came to it.”

“I think it’s very admirable that when it finally came down to it, it was an act of kindness and peacemaking that won you your place here.”

He swirls his cup of wine, considering this.  “I guess… it was… wasn’t it?”

“You really have no idea the scope of this accomplishment, do you?”

He laughs, a bit of cheer back in his voice.  “I guess not.  It seemed to be a taboo topic; no one wants to talk about it.”

“I won’t dish the gossip either,” Hestia tells him, “but I can tell you that your kindness didn’t just win you a throne; it mended a serious wound in this palace.”

“Well, I’m glad of that, then,” he says.  He looks a little relieved and she’s glad to see it.  “Though I wish I’d thought of being nice all those years ago.”

“It’s done,” she says. “In the past.  And as far as I can see, that must have all been just from the strain of the madness, and trying to find your place in the world, because since then I’ve only heard about how you spared Acoetes; or you restored Midas; or rescued your wife and mother; or got Pan out of Artemis’ hair.”

As she’d hoped, he laughs at that.  “Ha ha! You heard about that, eh?”

“The last time I saw her, it was all she could talk about.  How much easier life has been since you redirected the horny little shit.”

He’s laughing harder now. “Those are almost the exact words she used when she came to thank me.  I can’t believe she used that kind of language around Auntie Hess.”

“Artemis… isn’t as great at censoring her language,” Hestia understates.  “But still.  They were constantly annoying each other and bickering, until Dionysus steps in and saves the day. And,” she continues while the mood is good, “I also heard you created a sanctuary for those on the fringes.”

There are less polite words to describe them – but she means, those who don’t fit the prescribed mold. The men who love men; the women who love women; those who were born to the wrong body; those who feel “off” in some way.  

“I’m not great at organizing,” Dionysus says.  “But yeah. They’re my babies.  I wanted them to have one place where they could be… well, they’re not safe yet, unfortunately.  But at least…”  he trails off.

“At least they have one guy on their side if it comes to it,” she says, and hugs him when he grins.  “I cannot ever complain about such a kind god on Mount Olympus.  If anyone does – no one will, but if they do, send them to me and I’ll set them straight.”


	12. Athena

“Did you ever get a chance to enjoy the spice cookie recipe I gave you?” Hestia asks.

“I did!  I shared them with Artemis and Persephone, the last time they visited,” Athena replies, smiling warmly as she feeds Glauca another dead mouse.  Hestia’s vast experience with gods of questionable table manners leaves her unfazed.  

Glauca the owl is a new acquisition to Athena’s retinue, and Hestia approves.  She’s getting more personal quirks and preferences the longer she’s around, and in Hestia’s opinion the goddess of wisdom has come a long way from the cold and calculating figure she used to be.  

Athena’s visits are generally quite pleasant.  The two goddesses get along well, and have a shared understanding of the burden of bearing others’ secrets.  Athena is the only one of the Olympians to hold Zeus’ full and complete trust; Hestia has everyone else’s.  Athena doesn’t contribute to Hestia’s locked vault of confidences, and Hestia would be lying if she said she didn’t find it a relief to have one companion who is solely a companion, seeking no advice.

This isn’t to say that Athena never complains – she does, but it’s mostly an off-hand expression of exasperation.  She doesn’t seek sympathy or solutions, just an ear for a minute. And her complaint is always the same: she dislikes when people behave illogically.

Obviously, this occurs more than once among the Olympians.

Athena doesn’t understand why Ares and Aphrodite are feeling so angry and vengeful after their exposure – surely they knew that there could be consequences to their risky behavior?

She doesn’t understand Apollo’s actions against the Cyclopes, in the wake of the death of his son Asclepius.  The Cyclopes had nothing to do with it, and in any case, Asclepius was breaking the laws of the universe.  He needed to be handled.  

She doesn’t understand Demeter’s prolonged rage at Zeus and Hades – yes, it was rude of them to take the action without consulting or informing her, but ultimately it was Zeus’ prerogative as the father, and Persephone did not request eternal virginity as Athena and Artemis did.  Once it was determined that Persephone was safe, married to a respectable husband, what was there to be angry about?

These are, to most people observing, completely understandable actions… but they’re not particularly logical, and so they bewilder Athena every time.

“I have to say, I admire your ability to advise our king Zeus without pulling out your hair,” Hestia observes once.  “ _He_  certainly isn’t very logical.”

There’s a pause here, which is one of Athena’s tells.  She’s got a secret that she can’t divulge.  Hestia never presses.  She, more than anyone else in the Court of Olympus, understands the weight of keeping secrets.  

Athena sighs and pours herself another cup of tea.  “You have no idea the  _quantity_  of horseshit I shield you all from, sometimes,” is all she’ll say on the matter.  

“I can only imagine.  I’m sure we all appreciate it,” Hestia says, a little untruthfully.  Athena is still somewhat of a divisive figure among the gods and goddesses.  Nearly everyone, at minimum, resents her place as Zeus’ clear favorite; and for some of them – specifically, Zeus’ wife, brother, and his firstborn son – the usurpation is more poignant than for others.

The rivalry between Athena and Poseidon is particularly fierce, and Athena finds it exasperating.

“He’s the most illogical of anyone,” she’s observed, not incorrectly. “There’s no telling when he’ll be mellow and friendly, or when he’ll completely lose his shit.  There’s no pattern to it; no way to know how he’ll react to anything.”

Hestia has a fairly good handle on the demons haunting Poseidon; but of course, that’s not her secret to share.  She doesn’t think Athena would grasp the connections between Poseidon’s problems and his actions right now, anyway – nor is Poseidon likely to appreciate Athena’s willingness to do whatever it takes to win.

“He values other things, I suppose,” Hestia says gently.  “His immediate family and honor are quite important to him.”

A long pause here, and then she nods.  “I suppose it is.”

It won’t be for centuries before Hestia learns that one of Athena’s secrets is the nature of the death of Pallas, her childhood friend, Poseidon’s granddaughter, and Zeus’ role in that tragedy, and how Athena felt about any of it.

Today, she watches Athena gently preening Glauca’s feathers.  “You know – as one advisor to another – I feel like my role would be completely unnecessary if people would get out of their heads and actually talk to one another.”

A long pause, and this time Athena looks contemplative.

This conversation about spice cookie recipes and talking to each other takes place a little while before the marriage of Thetis and the mortal king Peleus. After the judgement of Paris; after the great and terrible war at Troy; after Odysseus’ long journey and brutal punishment at the hands of Poseidon; after the trial of Orestes… after all that, Zeus and Athena come clean, and Hestia learns at the same time as everyone else the truth about Athena – her origin as a figment of Zeus’ imagination, and her development as a being of pure intelligence long before she became a person of her own, and that she kept this secret for her king for most of her existence.  Centuries after she was born, and decades after this conversation with Hestia, Athena will finally take this advice and leave Zeus’ skull completely and begin talking to her family.

But for now, Athena only nods.  “Yes, I agree.  Things might be simpler and resolved to greater satisfaction if people were able to speak more freely to one another.”  She sighs again.  “I suppose there won’t be any end to the secrets for quite some time, though.”

“No, I don’t suppose there would be.”

Athena strokes Glauca, who appears to be sleeping.  

“I envy Glauca at times,” she says.

“A charmed life indeed.  Eating mice and occasionally fighting your enemies.”

Athena laughs.  “Well, I could do without the mice!  But yes. Glauca concerns herself only with mice and slaying her enemies.  No worries about what to wear; what she sounds like singing… no concerns for who is sleeping with whom or points in some inane competition.”

Ahh.  “Yes, it is an enviable life, when you look at it that way,” Hestia says, softly.

“I wouldn’t prefer it.  Owls don’t have much record of beautiful tapestries or entertaining plays, or really any permanent accomplishments.”

“The inconvenience of civilization is worth it?”

“Yes.  Though I do wish we could have the accomplishments of civilization while skipping out on all the dramatics.”

“Every person in the world that has any agenda or will of their own, is going to cause some dramatics, I’m afraid,” Hestia says.  “That’s half of what motivates anyone’s accomplishments, I think.”

Another long pause.  “Hmm. You may be right.”


	13. Poseidon

Poseidon is tied with Hera for complaining the most.  

Like Hera, he complains at length about Zeus; though he’s less concerned with marital infidelities than he is with arrogance.

Like Hera, he complains more about mortals than is usual for a god.  Most gods and goddesses consider mortals to be ephemeral pests at worst and rarely spend a great deal of energy on them.  If they’re bothersome enough, they curse them and leave it at that.  Poseidon feels a great deal of prickly slights against him and his unpredictability as lord of the sea.

This is a source of some agitation to him, and he’s reluctant to tell Hestia the whole truth; but the weight of his unhappiness eventually compels him to share with her.

Unlike his brothers, Poseidon has not attained full and total control over his realm.  The gods of the sea were present long before he entered the scene, and still have a great deal of personal power.  His wife, Amphitrite, is the latest personification of “the sea” – a title which has turned out to be more complex than any of the Olympians realize.  

Amphitrite adores Poseidon – she loves his darkly handsome features, his bright and cunning eyes, his wry smirk, his thick hair and beard.  But Amphitrite is so wild and feral as to almost be childlike, when she isn’t deeply and dangerously wise and powerful.  Quite a bit more powerful than Poseidon himself. He really has no control over her – barely has control over his realm.  

And so the sea is inconsistent, in response to the mortal’s prayers. Everyone chalks it up to Poseidon being a moody bitch, which frustrates him – but the truth would probably be worse, if it got out that Poseidon has to chase after his wife and try to convince her to behave.  Doubtless, the Olympians and mortals alike would wonder who truly rules the sea.

“It’s not that I mind… I’d be happy enough with our arrangement, but… people have expectations…” Poseidon scuffs a bare foot along the tiles.

The term “toxic masculinity” won’t enter their jargon for millennia, but it’s existed from the beginning, and the victims haven’t always been women.

“It may not be ideal, but at least you both get along so well.  Not everyone has as smooth a marital relationship,” Hestia tries to reassure him.  “It seems to me that Amphitrite truly loves you.”

“She does.  She’s great; Amphi isn’t the problem, really.” Hestia has never, ever heard him speak ill of his wife.  On good days, he often comes in speaking enthusiastically of the fun they’ve had creating a reef or attending to their marital duties.  “I don’t want her to change.  She’s a force, the way none of the rest of us are.   Wild is what she  _is_. I just wish – well,  _you_  know.  Zeus would never approve.”

This is uttered with a sneer.  Zeus casts a long shadow at times.  The measure of a successful leader and a true man, is established with Zeus as the gold standard.  Poseidon feels inadequate and the respect he longs for remains out of reach.

Even aside from the power imbalance with Amphitrite, there’s also the entire population of the sea that he must rule, all the Okeanids and Nereids and other denizens, all of whom are powerful and willful, and who are following Amphitrite primarily; Poseidon secondarily.  The mightiest of them all, Thetis, was once Queen of Heaven before Rhea and Hera in turn; a constant reminder that the status of king need not be permanent.

Poseidon fears his inconsistency will be read as weakness.  He fears that if he doesn’t fit the mold of “ideal male,” he will lose respect from his subjects and worshippers.  He fears losing control of his realm.  In his mind, if he fucks up, he’s absolutely positive that Zeus will give the sea to Athena.

“Like she’s taken everything else from everyone else,” he mutters darkly.  

Poseidon actually gets along fairly well with the other Olympians – save for two.  Zeus, he loves and hates equally… Athena, there’s only fury for her.

Well… fury, and grudging admiration.  Poseidon may hate her, but he has to admit her tactics in war and peacetime alike are impressive.  Her reputation as a goddess of wisdom is well-earned.  

“Yeah, okay, the smarmy bitch is never wrong about anything.  Great.  But the sum of all her wisdom amounts to finding a way to lie and cheat her way into Zeus’ good graces, no matter what she does,” he spits.  “Hera or I should be advising him.  Or at the least, his son!”

Poseidon has watched Athena’s ascendance in dismay.  She stole Athens from him; she killed his granddaughter and was never punished.  She stole Zeus from him: Athena commands the fullest attention from Zeus; she has no competitor.  Zeus never consults Poseidon for anything, anymore; and treats his older brother with only the same generally annoyed affection he deals everyone else.  Not the love and respect Poseidon feels he deserves – that privilege goes to Athena alone.  

The lord of the sea is hurt (and afraid) by the rejection and lashes out. Zeus and Athena both notice, and are irritated by, this constant jealousy and competition, but neither one realizes the source.

This only spurs him on further.  He competes with Zeus for who can seduce the most mortals; if Zeus is aware of this competition, he gives no sign.  

Poseidon hassles Athena’s favorite mortals; she dismisses it as Poseidon being irrational again and belittles him in front of Zeus.

“Maybe just focus less on the rest of them, and more on what you have,” Hestia suggests.  “You’re king of one-third of the world.  Your wife loves you; and many other family members are fond of you too.  Like myself; or Aphrodite or Apollo or Selene… and Demeter.  You might be the only one of our brothers that she still trusts.”  This conversation is shortly after Demeter has finally returned to Olympus, after the awful, gut-wrenching first winter, and the revelations that had come with it.

He snorts mirthlessly.  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he says, and then his eyes go contemplative.  “Maybe you’re right, though.  I could spend more time with the others… with Ares.  Heh.  That should piss off  _both_  of the dream team!”

Hestia wonders how this will pan out, in the end.  She often suspects that everyone in her family is barreling towards a furious showdown, but these three especially are embroiled in this – this – she’d call it a “love triangle,” and in a way it is, though it’s not sexual. There’s love, real and genuine… Poseidon admires his brother and niece, but he’s jealous of them both and feels inadequate.  Discontent and insecurity are his real enemies, and there’s no cure for that except coming to be happy with what he has and who he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mehhh I may rewrite this. I don't feel like I wrote him right... he was meant to be mired in toxic masculinity and feeling like he has to act a certain way, and his competition with Athena only exacerbates it, so he acts out even more.... anyway I tried :P


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